


the rose garden

by skai_heda



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Cults, F/M, Gen, Horror, Inspired by Midsommar (2019), Psychological Horror, Rituals, TW: Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skai_heda/pseuds/skai_heda
Summary: They're in this dim room, with faint dark stains at the front. She feels like she's been there before, maybe in a dream, maybe a long time ago. Vague images of a body, the whisper of voices forming a beautiful song.Amara gives Clarke a bouquet of white roses. Grief and purity. And then, Jade holds a cup to her mouth, and Clarke drinks.kind of a midsommar au
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	the rose garden

**Author's Note:**

> lol anyways i hate this but then again i cannot possibly be the only one who noticed how similar to midsommar season 6 was

The air here is sweeter than any place on Earth, Clarke decides. It's fresh and crisp, almost as wonderful as the first breath of the world beyond the metal walls of the Dropship. The gentle breath of a flower, the swaying grass.

She looks at Bellamy, who is inhaling deeply. It's hard to believe that they lived most of their lives in space, when fresh soil is the only place where anyone feels safe.

"Monty would love it," he murmurs to her.

"Yeah," she agrees. "He would."

* * *

**month 1**

After too much time spent fighting for another day to live, the Sanctum compound is a drastic change.

The people like to tell her that she is safe now. They like to tell her that she will be happy here. The people of Sanctum have heard the horrible stories, and they have embraced her and her people with open, silk-adorned arms.

"It's too good to be true," Clarke catches Raven telling Shaw.

Well, maybe. But they've been here for about three weeks, and no real threat has come up, unless one classifies extremely happy people as a threat.

"This is for the meeting," Blythe Ann says, handing Clarke a neatly packed box. Blythe Ann is this lovely woman with skin the color of coffee, accompanied with soft hair and a soft, motherly smile. Clarke can't help but like her, at least, if not trust her completely. "Can't have you going to the Primes in normal clothing."

"Thank you," Clarke replies, pulling the ribbons loose and prying the box open, revealing flowy, pink material. "A dress? You shouldn't have."

Blythe Ann smiles indulgently at her. "When's the last time you got to dress up for a nice occasion?" The true answer is never, really, but Clarke simply tells her that it's been a very long time before she goes to her room in the inn above the bar. As she pulls it on, Clarke allows herself to enjoy the feel of the dress. She remembers the Grounder attire she had worn when she had stayed with Lexa and Polis, the night Bellamy had asked her to return. 

Perhaps that might have qualified for an occasion where she got to dress up, but she could no longer see that night as a good memory, not when it had ended up causing her and Bellamy so much pain.

The man himself is sitting at a table with Echo, talking quietly. He glances up when her foot hits the bottom stair, leaning back and swallowing as he looks at her. "Nice dress," he says, almost tonelessly.

"I didn't think it was your style, but it definitely suits you," Echo says, glancing sideways at her boyfriend with a strange look before turning back to Clarke with what is actually a warm smile. 

"Thanks, Echo," Clarke replies.

"Great, now you really look like a Princess," a voice drawls, and she turns to see Murphy drinking, with Raven frowning at her, as she always does these days. Clarke doesn't bother to spare him a response as she emerges into the sweet, Sanctum air. She catches sight of women dressed in identical white dresses, all standing by the shallow pond in the center of the compound, talking amongst themselves.

Clarke absentmindedly tries to comb her hair with her fingers, feeling self-conscious at the sight of the beautiful women by the pond. 

The castle looms before, formidable despite the sun themed decor and the bright lights. There is a special sort of terror in beauty, she realizes, especially now that nothing can be trusted.

Russell and Simone Lightbourne sit at a long table deep within the castle, and Clarke almost forgets the presence of the guards behind her as she eyes the fine cutlery and clothing.

"Clarke," Russell says with a smile. "Why don't you sit down?"

She steps forward carefully, keeping her elbows off the table. Clarke watches as Russell and Simone eye the bandage on her hand from an injury with helping Blythe Ann cut vegetables, and then they look at each other.

"I'm afraid I have concerns about letting you and your people stay here," Russell finally says, tearing his gaze away from her hand. "I'm afraid your reputation precedes you. Perhaps the people that are currently here are not a threat, but you have a small army of criminals. And I'm afraid I can't let that disrupt the glory of Sanctum."

Clarke swallows. "I never wanted to impose, Russell. We were just hoping to stay here for a few months while we gathered the resources to build our own compound and be out of your hair. Once we start building, only then will the others come down. And they will never enter Sanctum. There will be no threat."

"What about you?" Simone says sharply. "Commander of Death, I've heard."

Her fingers twitch under the table. "A leader has to make hard choices if she wants her people to survive. Every single thing I did was for them."

This last part is not entirely true, but she needs Russell to trust her.

"I understand," he says finally. "You and I are very much alike."

"Please," Clarke replies. "Allow us to stay here. We won't cause any trouble."

Russell glances at his wife, before turning to Clarke. "Of course. Stay as long as you need."

* * *

**month 2**

There is a garden of roses behind the castle, petals of almost every color. Clarke finds it on a walk through Sanctum, mesmerized by the colorful flowers.

"I see you've found the roses," a voice says from behind her, and she turns to face one of the women she had seen all those weeks ago as she approached the castle to discuss the fate of her people. "I'm Jade."

"Clarke," she replies. "Uh, this is—this is a very beautiful garden."

"What do you know about color symbolism, Clarke?" Jade asks, stepping forward to touch a yellow rose.

"A few things," she murmurs. "Black for fear and mourning, white for—"

"Traditional color theory, then," Jade says. "No, Clarke. The white roses are for grief and loss. The red roses for violence and victory. Every rose is planted to symbolize the things that make up Sanctum. It's not all bad things though, I promise. The peach-colored roses are for friendship and prosperity. The history of our world can be found in this garden." Jade turns to Clarke. "I can teach you more about it, if you want."

"That sounds lovely," Clarke admits, then catches sight of people putting up decorations and more of those women in white dresses milling about. "What are they doing?"

"Sanctum celebrates summer and the two suns," Jade explains. "Always. But we always have a long summer festival when we find someone who will ascend to the rank of Prime."

"And who is that?" Clarke asks, but Jade just smiles at her before going to join the others.

Clarke is left staring at the movement of the white dresses.

* * *

"You seem sad," Jade says one day. 

"I am," Clarke admits. "There's a lot going on."

Jade sighs, running her fingers along one of the thorns of the white roses. "What's the use in caring for people who don't love you?" Clarke looks up at this, opening her mouth to defend them, but Jade moves on. "The white roses also mean purity. And purity is very important here in Sanctum."

Clarke bites her lip, thinking about Jade's previous comment.

"What's the most important thing to you?" she asks Clarke.

"The safety of my family. And my friends." She doesn't even hesitate.

Jade smiles sadly, shaking her head. "I think you've got it all wrong, Clarke. The most important thing is to be loved. And are you?"

"Of course," Clarke answers defensively. "Madi loves me. B—"

"Whatever is going on between you and your people, it isn't love. They depend on you, and hate you when they feel like they can't. Am I not wrong?"

Clarke wants desperately to say yes, that Jade _is_ wrong, that many people love her. But she can't.

"You will be loved here," Jade murmurs, handing Clarke a yellow rose. "That's the true glory and grace of Sanctum. Love."

* * *

**month 3**

Faces and names start to blur in Clarke's head, old information leaking out of her head. There are new names that are at the front of her brain. The names of the girls in the varying white dresses, the ones who take her to the rose garden, the ones that brush her hair, the ones that sing softly at night, the ones who observe her scars and tell her that they are beautiful.

"Clarke," a voice says as she steps into the bar, her own white clothing almost shining in the dim light. She turns to face a woman with long brown hair and olive skin, a metal brace on her leg. The name takes a second to come to her, but she finally remembers.

"Raven," she says. "What is it?"

"Have you—have you seen Shaw?" Raven asks. "I haven't seen him since last night."

 _Shaw._ He is barely even a memory in Clarke's head.

"I haven't seen him," she answers.

* * *

"What's going on?" Clarke asks, seeing Jade in the mirror of her room.

"We're celebrating," Jade answers. "You may join us."

She leaves, and Clarke runs her hands through her hair, the soft waves slipping through her fingers like liquid sunlight. She rises to go downstairs, but is stopped by a small figure.

"Clarke," the child in front of her says. _Madi._ "What's going on? Nobody has talked to you in weeks."

"You don't have to worry about me," Clarke says. "I promise. I'm okay."

_I am loved._

"Clarke."

"What?"

"Are you sure? You seem different."

She kneels in front of the kid, touching her shoulders. She can barely even make out her face—it's just a dull blur of color. "I'm fine."

* * *

"You weren't at the celebration." Another woman, Amara, comes into Clarke's bedroom holding a cup. 

"I didn't want to go," Clarke admits. "I feel strange, Amara. My people—my friends. I can't remember them. I can't see them. I don't—I don't remember what they looked like."

She thinks she sees Amara scowl, but it might be a trick of the light. "Drink this," she says, holding out her cup. "You'll feel better."

Clarke accepts the cool drink, peering down at it. It's something that the women have given her before, a soothing tonic, they said. Clarke drinks it hungrily, remembering how much she loves the feeling of her body lightening, the sensation of a gentle wind through her veins.

"How do you feel now?"

"Better," Clarke says. "I feel a lot better."

* * *

She wakes to screaming.

Clarke rushes downstairs, seeing a woman with dark hair tied into a ponytail being held by another woman with brown and caramel hair, her eyes a cold, sharp hazel. The woman with darker hair looks at Clarke and lunges at her, reaching for her throat with one hand, punching her with the other. "You killed him," she says, over and over. "You're the reason he's dead."

Vaguely, Clarke hears screaming, a bird's name, her own name.

The hand is forcibly removed from her throat by another, and she slumps against the wall, barely registering the pain she feels in her face and throat. 

"Are you okay?" a man asks, getting close to her. Familiar—but not.

Jade rushes in, pulling Clarke away. 

"Someone died," she says to Jade. "Who was it."

Jade sighs. "Zeke Shaw."

"Someone asked me about it earlier," Clarke says. "He was missing."

"He's done us a great service," Jade says, pulling her into a dark building. She can hear the soft singing of the other girls as Jade pulls her into a dimly lit room, with a crumpled form in the middle of the circle formed by the women.

It's a horrendous sight—the face is almost completely gone, as if someone had lit a small stick of dynamite against it. The hands and legs are bound, and a large heart-shaped hole is carved into the upper body, revealing the real heart within.

"Drink this," Jade whispers, passing Clarke a small cup. She can understand what the others are singing now—Zeke Shaw's name, a story, a blessing. A gift, to her, to Clarke, the next Prime of Sanctum. When even the smallest droplet of the drink has disappeared down Clarke's throat, she sings, too.

When she wakes the following morning, she remembers nothing.

* * *

"A few more of them came down from their ship," Clarke hears Amara tell Jade. "Think she'll remember them?"

"No," Jade replies. "She won't."

* * *

An older woman finds Clarke days later, her features eerily similar to Clarke's.

"Clarke," she says, caressing her cheek. "Oh, Clarke. Marcus is dead."

She tries to remember if she knew anyone named Marcus, but nothing comes up. "Oh," she says quietly, frowning.

"There's something wrong with this place, honey. They're hiding something."

"This place is beautiful," she tells the woman. "I don't know why you'd ever think anything different."

* * *

**month 4**

They're in this dim room, with faint dark stains at the front. She feels like she's been there before, maybe in a dream, maybe a long time ago. Vague images of a body, the whisper of voices forming a beautiful song.

Amara gives Clarke a bouquet of white roses. Grief and purity. And then, Jade holds a cup to her mouth, and Clarke drinks.

"The second gift," Amara announces to the other women. "It's time."

"You shouldn't listen to the song," Jade advises quietly, handing Clarke a pair of wax earplugs. "It will make you sleepy. And we don't want you to miss the fun, do we?"

Clarke accepts it gratefully, reveling in the love present in everyone's eyes as they look at her. The soft touches, the warm smiles. This was perfect. She puts the earplugs in, staring ahead. She sees that older woman come into the room—she had spoken to her once, the woman that looked like her. The world is silent except for the rush of blood in her head, and when she looks at the others, she sees their mouths open. Bodies swaying as they sing.

The woman screams at her. Asking for help, maybe. Clarke doesn't do anything. She's done being responsible for others.

Clarke watches the woman's eyes go glassy. Amara steps forward and hands her a small, jeweled knife.

There's a deep calm washing over her, gentle waves against sand. Clarke no longer hurts or worries. She just is.

_Mother._

The word explodes into her brain, and something, for the smallest fraction of a second, seems horribly wrong. But the thought disappears as quickly as it comes, and she sinks back into the gentle wind.

The woman brings the knife to her wrists. She drags the blade against her skin, small rubies pouring from the opening of the flesh. Clarke watches, lost in the loudest silence of her life, the most soothing and comforting feeling she's ever had. And when the woman has slit both of her wrists, she raises the knife to her neck, cutting that open too. 

Clarke's vision fills with rubies, and sapphires on the now dead woman's face. Diamonds in the bouquet she holds.

She feels good, but a scream shoots up her throat and tears out of her mouth. She drops the roses and falls to her knees, pulling the earplugs out. She cannot process it, the crushing happiness and the gut-wrenching terror. How can she feel so good while knowing something horrible has happened?

A hand brings another cup to her lips, but someone else pushes it away. Clarke tries to reach for it, crying harder. "Let her feel it," Jade murmurs by her ear. "She will be happy later."

She wants to stop, but the screams and the sobs keep erupting out of her, and a million hands hold her, a million hands touch her hair.

"Cry, my queen," Amara murmurs soothingly, as consciousness starts to fade. "Our Prime, our ascendant, our Josephine."

* * *

Something had happened, and Clarke could not figure out what it was.

She sits alone in the rose garden, fingers twitching. She couldn't remember a single thing about last night.

"I thought you might want this," Amara says, approaching her with a cup.

Clarke downs the liquid without a second thought.

* * *

**month 5**

Weeks of parties, weeks of celebrations. Lanterns in the sky, lights on in every house.

Something eats at her. Despite the utter happiness that seems to surround her, something seems to be there. Weaker than a feeling, stronger than instinct. There, but not.

She opens the door to her room, before glancing back at the bed. 

Before she can turn, strong arms wrap around her, hands on her mouth and her eyes, and something sharp in her neck before the world slips away like water down a drain.

* * *

"What the hell do you think we do, Bellamy? They haven't hurt her."

"No, they fucking hypnotized her or something. Octavia, we figured this out weeks ago. But we've just gotten her."

"She doesn't remember us."

"Raven—"

"She's awake. See for yourself."

She opens her eyes to unfamiliar faces looming over her, and Clarke swallows. She tries to move her arms and legs, but they're bound by belts or something.

"Clarke," a man with curly hair says, approaching her. "Clarke, I'm taking the gag out. You aren't going to scream."

She bites the cloth in her mouth before finally letting him take it out.

"Which one is Raven?" he asks.

She starts to breathe shakily. "No, no, no," she murmurs. "No—you can't—"

He bites his lip. "What's my name?"

She stares at him, thinking, hoping, but nothing comes to her mouth.

"Jesus Christ," another man says. He stands next to a girl with a tattooed face.

"Let me go," Clarke snarls.

"No," a woman with dark hair and tattoos on her arm says. "Not until we fix you."

"Fix me?" she spits. "There's _nothing_ wrong with me. Let me go now, and I won't turn you into the authorities."

"No—"

"Let her go," the curly-haired one says. "Now."

The restraints come off, and shakily, Clarke gets to her feet.

"Never speak to me again," she spits, and she leaves.

* * *

They had acted like she has known them forever. 

Why?

She tightens her grip on the stem of a white rose. When she loosens her hand, there are thin streams of black blood on her palms. Clarke reaches up to touch the petals, leaving black stains on the white surface.

"Brought you your drink," Jade says, coming over to her with a cup. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing," Clarke says, taking the cup. "Thank you."

Jade seems to understand her need to be alone, so she leaves after Clarke raises the rim to her lips. 

She waits until Jade is gone before pouring the contents of the cup into the soil.

* * *

Things have sharpened, somehow. The hazy glow of Sanctum has faded slightly.

She stops drinking it. Whatever it is, she can't have it anymore. She spends hours staring at the walls, trying to remember something, but it never comes.

_Would it really be so bad to just forget and move on? To live as happy as you were before?_

Clarke pours the drink onto the white roses.

* * *

"Today is the day," Amara says, leading Clarke into the castle. Russell and Simone are there, smiling warmly.

"What's happening?" she asks.

"Our daughter comes home today," Simone murmurs.

"Today is the day you become a Prime," Russell says.

* * *

She finds a secluded room with a screen, hoping to catch some air. She goes to leave, knowing she shouldn't be here, but curiosity wins over, and she turns the screen on. She sees two men on the screen, and one inserts a needle into a girl's neck.

There are a few long minutes of screaming, whispered words of awe.

And then the girl's personality changes completely—whereas she didn't recognize the men before, she knows them now.

"What the hell happened?" one of the men ask.

"The old host is dead. Josephine is reborn," the other says.

It's horrifying. Parasitic. Murder for the sake of immortality.

_Josephine is reborn._

Clarke won't ascend today. She'll be murdered.

"Clarke—!"

She whirls around to see Jade and Amara, and the former widens her eyes, holding out a wine glass.

Clarke takes it, lips parted. She could drink it, and she could forget. She could be murdered, and be fine.

She slams the cup against a wall, leaving a jagged shard behind, and with that, she lunges, dragging the glass across Jade's neck, and then Amara's. 

They're dead before they hit the ground.

A name bubbles to the surface of her mind. 

_Bellamy._

* * *

She bursts into the tavern.

"Bellamy!" she yells, regarding the group of people sitting at one of the tables. She must look crazy, with her flowing blue evening gown and her wild eyes. "I need to speak to Bellamy."

The people approach her, grabbing her arms, touching her face. _Do you remember? Do you know?_

"Where is he?" she asks. "Which one is he?"

"I'm right here," the man with the curly hair says. "Clarke, I'm right here."

And at that moment, she remembers everything.

* * *

She can't breathe. Her world is shattering before her very eyes, exploding into shards of glass and rose petals. She screams and screams, and no drink or word could help her.

"Take her to our compound," she hears someone say. "Go. Get her far away from here."

Someone takes her hand and pulls, but she's content to stay here and die.

"We have to go," Octavia says desperately. "We have to go, Clarke, please."

"The rose garden," she says, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Bellamy, the rose garden."

"What about it?" Echo says.

Clarke takes a shuddering breath. "Burn it to the ground."

* * *

**one month later**

"Hey," Bellamy says. She's sitting on the back porch of this small house that had been built for her and Madi, without her knowledge. "Mind if I join you?"

"No," she says, looking at him, offering a weak smile.

"How are you?"

"You don't have to ask me every day," she murmurs. "Besides, I should be asking you. Echo told me she broke up with you."

"It was a mutual thing," he says, tilting his head. "And it was a longer time ago than you think."

She swallows. "I missed so much, didn't I?"

Bellamy sighs. "No one could blame you, Clarke. They corrupted you. They put you in their control."

"I let them, didn't I?" she says. "I felt like no one loved me. And when they saw how weak I was, they took advantage of it, and I let them."

"People loved you, Clarke," Bellamy replies sadly. "They still do. They always will, no matter what."

"I let them drive my mother to insanity in front of me," she says. "I let them kill Shaw. I saw the bodies, Bellamy. I saw everything. And I let it happen."

"No one blames you. No one will," he insists. "You're safe now, Clarke. You're here."

"What's different from the last time?" she asks him. "It's not something they did. I let go because deep down, I was tired of being in charge of everyone else. It was all me, deep down. What makes you think that I won't descend into that same insanity again?"

"I think you should have a better understanding of the truth," Bellamy says, reaching over to lace his fingers with hers. "And the truth is that I love you. And the truth is that you're a good person."

He kisses her then, softly, as if they have all the time in the world.

"I don't believe you," she says.

"You don't have to," Bellamy replies, kissing her forehead. "Not yet."

* * *

(it takes a while, but she does.)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos would be great. on another note, stay safe, whether you're protesting or just staying home. love you all <3


End file.
